


The Cat Himself Knows and will Never Confess

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Facial Shaving, Just Add Kittens, Kittens, Kittens and Deviance and You: A Dorian Pavus Story, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, Pining, Trust Kink, and then there are sensible people, animal abuse (brief mention), cat-typical laws of nature, cat-typical physics, there are cat people in this world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dorian does not engage in competition with a small cat for the Inquisitor's attention. (But if he did, he would be losing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cat Himself Knows and will Never Confess

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely [artwork](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/post/129195163082/adaar-holds-the-wiggling-white-body-to-his-chest) by [robbicide](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/), who deserves all the glowing compliments and reblogs.

There are hands in Dorian‘s hair, raking soothing lines from the edge of his crown to the base of his scalp. The book in his lap is fascinating, nearly five-hundred pages on the fine art of necromancy, and he‘s just getting to the best part - the part where he sets it aside for the novel on the Inquisitor‘s table beside the sofa, lent to Dorian by Cassandra who had smuggled it from Varric in a bizarre fit of mischief. Quite vexing, how his evening plans are quickly being waylaid by five flexing fingers and the destructive magic they work on his ability to focus.

 

“I insist you stop that at once,” Dorian sighs, leaning back into the touch despite himself. A quiet laugh vibrates through the chest against his shoulder.

 

“As you wish,” Adaar obliges, once Dorian‘s hair has been thoroughly mussed. Dorian would stage another protest just to keep the Inquisitor on his toes, but then the fingers relocate to the nape of his neck. They take to their new post extraordinarily well, rubbing in slow, deep circles, and the words die on Dorian‘s lips.

 

Well. The one‘s that aren‘t, “Maker,” and, “Should I be paying you for this?” and a string of Arcanum when the first hand‘s partner takes that opportunity to remove the tome from Dorian’s lap and toss it to the other end of the sofa.

 

“I was reading that,” he insists.

 

“You‘re welcome to continue, if you‘d prefer,” Adaar says, nosing behind Dorian‘s ear. He‘s stopped massaging the back of Dorian‘s neck, but his hand is no less persuasive where it‘s migrated to his waist.

 

“I‘ve lost my page now,” he sighs, giving it a long, forlorn look before he lifts himself up - “Nothing for it, I suppose.” - and swings his right leg over Adaar‘s lap to straddle him.

 

Something like magic licks up Dorian‘s spine when the Inquisitor‘s eyes go dark and heavy-lidded with want.

 

“So,” Dorian begins when Adaar‘s massive hands slide up his thighs, “now that you have my attention, precious resource that it is, what do you intend to do with it?”

 

“Would you like a list?” The hands around his thighs squeeze once, thumbs rubbing back and forth arhythmically. Dorian‘s brain stutters. Adaar‘s eyes flick down to Dorian‘s lips when he wets them with a quick swipe of his tongue.

 

“I would, actually. Have you got one written up?”

 

One corner of Adaar‘s mouth quirks, but he doesn‘t respond, apparently content to rake his gaze down Dorian‘s neck, the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his body. The hunger behind them makes Dorian preen as much as it sends little thrills of lightning under his skin, raising gooseflesh along his arms.

 

Dorian starts to say something else, probably, but then Adaar‘s hands slide back to cup his ass and drag him a scant few inches closer. Gripping Adaar‘s shoulders to maintain his balance, Dorian follows through with the motion, rotating his hips just enough to make Adaar‘s lips part for a sharp little inhale.

 

The sofa cushion beneath Dorian‘s knees is unyielding when he lifts himself up and positions himself a little more comfortably atop those powerful thighs, like his own personal throne. If he happens to rub intimately against Adaar in the process, well. It‘s only fair, considering what Adaar‘s hands are doing to his ass.

 

“If I may put forward a suggestion or two...” Dorian breathes against Adaar‘s ear, rocking his hips forward again, when suddenly his open, panting mouth is full of fur.

 

Dorian jerks back, and did Adaar‘s hands not keep him rooted in place, he would fall from grace. And the sofa.

 

“Fasta vass!” he splutters, swiping the back of his hand over his tongue. A pair of bright blue eyes regards him curiously from Adaar’s shoulder, a damp tail flickering back and forth.

 

Adaar’s bottom lip is tucked between his teeth and if he laughs, Dorian walks. “Marvelous. Your little monstrosity interrupted your interruption. You two deserve each other.”

 

It isn’t at all charming, the way Adaar’s eyes crease at the corners when he tries so hard not to laugh, and Dorian lightly smacks his shoulder when he’s pulled close again. “On her behalf, I apologize,” Adaar tries in an effort to soothe, as though Dorian’s pride could be so easily restored.

 

“I’d rather like to hear it from the beast itself.”

 

He isn’t optimistic; the barbarian has absolved itself of all wrongdoing and lifts its leg to clean its own unmentionables as though to illustrate the point. Adaar takes that moment to reach up and scratch it behind the ears. Disgraceful - that’s attention Dorian has earned.

 

“If you’ve any hope of continuing this sordid affair,” Dorian sniffs, extricating himself from Adaar’s grip to stand and straighten his clothes, “you’ll turn the little wretch over to Cole for the evening. I myself am off to wash my mouth of its filth. Quite possibly, my whole body will follow. You’re welcome to join me, if you’ve a mind and an acute feline absence.”

 

He waits to adjust himself until he is hidden halfway down the stairs, where at least there he may maintain some of the dignity Adaar’s new plaything is determined to strip away. Truth be told, he’s not confident it works, but at the very least he can say he’s never made himself comfortable on the Inquisitor’s shoulder just to lap at his own genitals.

 

That puts him a step above the cat.

 

Probably.

 

* * *

 

Cole had found her in the kitchens, crawling away from the shrieking cook’s broom on clumsy legs too close to her body to allow for speed or stealth. He heard her panicking heartbeat and spirited her away before the cook even knew he was there.

 

She was frightened and small, too small. What she needed was a pair of big hands and a bigger heart, care and shelter far away from brooms and hunger and harsh tones, and thus Cole made his way to the biggest hands he knew. They didn’t notice him perched upon a corner of the table in the war room, not until two raids and a siege had been planned, but then Lady Josephine squeaked and Cullen’s thoughts stuttered to a halt and Adaar’s mind turned from war to that soft, bright place that made Cole’s insides warm.

 

“Cole,” he had said, wandering closer. The kitten gnawing on Cole’s thumb paused at the low note, its fresh, new mind piquing. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Sitting,” he answered, swinging his legs. “Listening.”

 

“What do you have there?”

 

He hopped of the table when bid, and felt curiosity radiating from all corners of the room. “A small cat,” he answered. “For you.”

 

“For me?”

 

“It’s for the best,” he explained.

 

Cullen disapproved, but Leliana and Josephine stepped forward. The lady swathed in silk recalled a cat of her own, soft, dear, sleek and lazy in the Antivan sun. The left hand was struck with a bright burst of affection, the pattering of tiny feet on hardwood floor, bustling around her feet, sweet and beloved, delight at her touch.

 

“The mother is gone,” he answered Adaar’s unasked question. “Ran when the broom came down hard in the larder. Brothers, sisters drowned like rats, frightened minds gone quiet in little bodies. _Disobedient hands, idle help, stray cats breeding in the potatoes, last straw._ Anger and haste.” She released Cole’s thumb only when he passed her into the Inquisitor’s open hands. “It’s for the best,” he insisted once more as he felt hesitation yield. “She needs to be taken care of. You’re _good_ at taking care.”

 

“We’ll see,” Adaar allowed, but Cole well knew the heart of him.

 

He’d settled her in the big hands that led straight to the bigger heart. He had helped.

  


* * *

  


Dorian is brought to an abrupt halt by a hand on his shoulder, steadying him over loose gravel as the Inquisitor mumbles something of an explanation while he rifles through Dorian‘s pack. And then, once Varric and Cassandra stop in their tracks to turn and regard the scene with curiosity:

 

“We have to turn around.”

 

Varric lets out a bark of laughter, thin sheen of sweat glistening at his temple, but when Adaar doesn‘t share in the mirth, his face falls. “You‘ve gotta be shitting me. We just made it out of the mountains.”

 

Adaar looks deeply apologetic, but unmoved as he pulls a squirming ball of fur from Dorian’s pack. Varric’s irritation turns to bewilderment before it melts into laughter that Dorian can’t find it in himself to share.

 

“Didn’t want to get lonely, Sparkler?”

 

“Is it that obvious? Confound it all, you’ve lifted the last veil of mystery I had at my disposal.”

 

“Nah, pretty sure you did that to yourself at last week’s Wicked Grace.”

 

Cassandra makes a noise of pure disgust and Dorian would throw her a wink and a grin if he wasn’t stuck thinking about the long climb all the way back up to Skyhold. “Surely it’s time for the little blighter to learn to fend for itself? It’s a cold, hard world, Inquisitor; sometimes you just have to push the baby bird from its nest.”

 

Adaar holds the wiggling white body to his chest with one hand and touches the small of Dorian’s back with the other. “You three wait here. I’ll give her to the nearest scout I see, and they’ll return her to Skyhold.”

 

“Maybe you should give her a taste of adventure she’s so desperate for?” Varric suggests, curling a finger under her chin. Her big blue eyes slowly close in bliss, and Dorian finds it all terribly fake of her. Varric wouldn’t be so forgiving if she was so intent on ruining  _his_ life. Instead she’s sat there in Adaar’s palm, batting at Varric’s hand with a charming brown paw whenever he so much as thinks to pull away, and only Dorian knows what treachery lies within that fuzzy little head.

 

“What a marvelous idea! Let’s take her to the Emprise. Does she wield a bow, or a broadsword? I can’t imagine claws will be terribly effective against those pesky red lyrium giants.”

 

“Well, if she takes after her fathers, we should probably get her a little staff.”

 

Dorian only hopes the wild offense he feels is painted accurately across his face. Cassandra makes a noise, and for a moment Dorian does believe someone will take his side.

 

“We hardly want for more mages. Perhaps a dagger would suit.”

 

There is no greater blow than to learn that no one can be trusted.

 

The ornery little monster is crawling up the leather of Adaar’s robes when he bids them a temporary farewell, and Dorian shouldn’t be surprised that she hopes to ruin the integrity of the Inquisitor’s appearance as well.

 

“She must really like you, to stow away like an outlaw in your pack,” Varric begins conversationally, but Dorian can’t hear whatever comes next in the midst of all his ugly laughter.

  


 

* * *

  


“Absolutely not.”

 

A long pink tongue curls shamelessly in a yawn before the cat’s little body twists and turns. She bears her soft white belly to him on the bed and Dorian scoffs, crossing to the Inquisitor’s closet to undress. The hour is late, late enough for prying eyes to have retired to their own chambers, and Dorian had hoped to pine privately in Adaar’s quarters. _Alone_.

 

There was a part of him that had thought perhaps in Adaar’s absence, Cole would have swept the cat into his haunted attic. Or maybe Sera, who delights in her tiny paws; or Josephine, who dotes on her like a mother hen; or even Leliana, who has ambitions to train the contrary beast to deliver messages tied around her neck.

 

But here she is, curled up on Adaar’s pillow, blinking large blue eyes across the room while he swaths himself in a tunic meant for shoulders twice the breadth of his own, silently judging. Dorian turns up his nose. “Please. You’re no better, rolling around in his bed. Try all you like, but you’ll never smell like anything but fur and desperation.”

 

She makes a little noise and slowly extends a short stubby paw before retracting it against her chest. She blinks slowly, lazily at him when he ignites the candles by Adaar’s bed with a flick of his wrist. Dorian takes a thick, heavy tome from Adaar’s collection and once he’s near enough, tosses it onto the bed. A vindictive little part of him is disappointed when she remains entirely unruffled by the thump. With a sigh, Dorian props himself up on his side of the bed beneath the covers and pulls the book into his lap.

 

It’s easy enough to ignore the cat, focused as he is on the text before him. Perhaps that is his first mistake: daring to indulge himself in her presence. He’s in the middle of a paragraph on bizarre, ancient accounts of dragon transfiguration when a pair of eyes set in a white thicket of fur pokes its way into his line of vision. She’s far too close for comfort - if not for the tome, she would be in his lap. Dorian wrinkles his nose.

 

“Go on,” he says, brushing her off of the book with the back of his hand. Nearly weightless, she goes easily, flopping onto the bed. Dorian ignores her further staring, searching for the misplaced sentence, and _tsks_ when not a moment passes and she’s back again. He lifts her away bodily with a, “No no, off with you. If you absolutely must, you may be a nuisance at my feet, but come no closer.”

 

She makes a quiet mewling protest when he sets her on the floor, and Dorian snorts. “I think you’ll find I am not quite so moved by your pleas as the big one. No, not that look, either. I’ve mastered that technique myself. I am immune.”

 

She cries again, quiet but insistent, and Dorian deigns to ignore her. Her legs are abnormally short, and he’s confident she could not reach the blankets for a daring climb if she tried.

 

Dorian also ignores the train of thought that leads to reminding him how cold the stone floor gets at night, or how near the perilous flight of stairs is and how easily it would be to stumble on abysmally short legs, or what adverse effects small bodies would suffer should their curious mouths find little paint pots ajar in the loft, and curse it all, he’s lifting her back onto the bed. Drat and damnation.

 

“It isn’t _you_ I’m worried about,” Dorian insists, poking her between the ears. She closes her eyes and nuzzles his hand, which means it’s time to pull away. “For Andraste’s sake, don’t purr. Have some dignity. I’m only concerned that should you go to your clumsy death under my care, I’d never hear the end of it. That man makes the most unbearable expression when he's feeling forlorn. I couldn’t live with myself, and you wouldn’t even be around to shoulder the blame for your own demise.”

 

It becomes very clear very quickly that he isn’t going to get any real reading done this night, so Dorian tips the book and watches her roll ass-over-teakettle between his knees.

 

“You make a poor substitute for warmth,” he feels he must inform her when the candles have been snuffed and he’s tucked himself away in the center of the bed, pressing his face to Adaar’s pillow - the side that hasn’t been tainted by _eau de chat_. Purring contentedly against his chest despite his protests, she hardly seems to care.

 

How very typical of her.

 

 

* * *

  


“Why do we ever leave Val Royeaux?”

 

Hot water surges over the marble lip of the tub when he shifts, a puddle that goes still and cools around a vast assortment of oils and creams. Dorian reaches out and lifts a vial for examination, sniffs at the contents and wrinkles his nose. Whether it is the rhetorical question or the expression on his face that makes Adaar smile, soft and amused, Dorian cannot say.

 

“You like crystal grace,” Adaar says, leaning forward to take a whiff for himself.

 

“Certainly. When it isn’t concentrated into an overpowering paste.” Dorian corks the vial and lifts another from the puddle behind Adaar’s head. “What good is being the Inquisitor, really, if your complimentary luxuries are an affront to the senses?”

 

“Weren’t you just complementing the amenities?”

 

“It must be so tiresome to follow a fickle heart like mine.” Dorian sniffs the off-white cream within the new vial and pauses. Another small wave sloshes over the in-ground tub when he shifts further back between Adaar’s long legs until he rests comfortably between his thighs. “Yes, this one will do, I think. Lean forward.”

 

Obediently, Adaar tips his head toward Dorian. Candles glow aplenty from all corners of the washroom, casting long shadows of Adaar’s eyelashes as his eyelids droop when Dorian takes a wet cloth to his jaw. The scrape of stubble against Dorian’s thumb sounds louder in the quiet space between them, and he tuts. “Try not to fall asleep. I don't have the upper body strength to keep us both afloat, and we can all agree that I deserve a far more glamorous death.”

 

When he follows the cloth with cream-coated fingers, Adaar glances up, eyes playful. “You prefer lavender to crystal grace? Didn’t you want me to stay awake?”

 

“If you’re asking if I’d rather risk drowning in an Orlesian tub than sleep beside you reeking of that cloying stench, then the answer is yes.”

 

Adaar’s quiet laughter resonates from deep within his chest off of the damp walls.

 

When Dorian’s hands are clean of the foam, he plucks the razor from the puddle by the bath and Adaar obligingly turns his head where Dorian moves him. He falls into Dorian’s whims so easily, so simply, like hesitation doesn’t exist within his realm of understanding - not when strange men in demon-infested chantries wave him toward gaping, pulsating Fade rifts; nor when a handful of Tevinters spit him out into a desolate future with little hope of return; nor when revered mothers wag their tongues with good cause about mages of questionable origins. Not even when Dorian has a blade to his throat, bared willingly, easily. Happily.

 

Undue influence indeed.

 

With a steadying hand to Adaar’s jaw, Dorian skims the blade through the lather in smooth, short increments. The gentle scrape of it fills the silence between them. A fat drop of water crawls from Adaar‘s temple to the dark crevice between the heel of Dorian‘s palm and his jaw. Dorian dabs flecks of white from freshly shaven flesh with a cloth and slides the pad of his thumb over the smooth expanse of skin. Adaar‘s eyes are dark in naught but candlelight, unbearably full in an appropriate reflection of Dorian‘s thoughts. It‘s always a possibility that he may be projecting, but Dorian finds it unlikely. He knows a great many things, and one of them is that the easiest way to coax the Inquisitor‘s softest side from hiding is to cradle his face like something delicate, precious. Dorian knows it, because it is a weakness shared between them.  

 

"I’m hardly one to talk. Here you are, fraternizing with the enemy. Risking your life for… well, for admittedly fantastic sex.”

 

“Whose enemy is that?” Adaar asks, and Dorian doesn’t struggle for a moment with the desire to lean forward and kiss the clean corner of that mouth. A hint of bitterness lingers from the lather, but it’s not nearly enough to deter Dorian’s wandering lips.

 

The scratching at the door, though. That might do it.

 

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian sighs, defeated, when the door yields to the incessant pawing and a bewhiskered nose pokes inside. “Not a moment’s respite.”

 

“She was just lonely,” Adaar says, lifting a hand from the water to reach out as she approaches. She presses her nose to his index finger, and once her curiosity is sated, she wanders over to the huddled collection of jars and vials. Dorian tsks, leaning heavily on Adaar’s chest as he stretches to gather them away.

 

“If she eats something foul that turns her innards to mush, it will be on your head for leaving the door ajar,” he says peevishly, sliding out of Adaar’s lap to wade to the opposite side of the massive tub. The windowsill is wide, and it is is no feat for the the ledge to accommodate the wealth of product. That makes it almost convenient enough to make up for the way it’s too far from the bench on the opposite side to easily reach while he’s seated atop Adaar’s thighs. Almost.

 

“Chances are, her breath would just smell like crystal grace for a week.”

 

“... I’m sorry, was that meant to be the best case scenario?”

 

Adaar’s smile draws him close, whether Dorian is happy about it or not, and he’s hardly mindful of the little monster reaching up to bat at Adaar’s horns when he pulls Dorian between his legs.

 

“You care about her,” he says, pressing his thumbs into Dorian’s ribs in a way that makes a monumental effort of standing still.

 

“I would hardly label avoiding the deaths of baby animals who have a shocking lack of self preservation instincts as  _care_.”

 

“But you do.”

 

His noncommittal noise comes from a high, nasally place, and Adaar’s laugh is easily swallowed when Dorian leans down to steal it away. It is shameful instinct now how easily Dorian finds his way back into Adaar’s lap at the slightest touch. His hands slip over the wet, hot skin of Adaar’s chest, his shoulders, his neck. He hums as Adaar parts his lips and Dorian has only just begun to lose himself to that fuzzy, warm place his mind goes at the behest of Adaar’s mouth when an unexpected, rough tongue crawls up his thumb. Hastily, he pulls away and examines his hand for any leftover traces of shaving lather. Upon finding none, Dorian sighs and drops his forehead to Adaar’s shoulder.

 

“I’m fairly certain this is an indecent display to make before the eyes of a child,” he grumbles at last, forfeiting whatever hopes his stirring libido may have once entertained. Adaar pats his back in consolation, or a misplaced sense of solidarity. “But she’s right. I still need to finish your face.” He slides out of Adaar’s lap to fetch the razor and the vial once more, but not before nudging her away from the lip of the tub. “What do you suppose my chances are that she’ll let me shave her next?”

 

“Only if you ask very nicely,” Adaar smiles.

 

“And she doesn’t even have the dexterity to return the favor.”

 

“Or the thumbs.”

 

“Pitiful. Why do we even keep her around.”

 

The cry that bounces off the walls, the tiny splash of her body hitting the water, and Adaar’s scramble to lift her out gives Dorian the perfect opportunity to smother his laughter. Heroically, he manages it before the Inquisitor ever has to see. “Ah yes, I remember; she's here to make all my points for me.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

“She must stay here.”

 

Dorian lifts his eyes from the book in his lap after a deliberate, measured pause. “And a good evening to you as well, Ambassador. Always a fine day to be graced by your presence. Of course, it is somewhat dampened by the accursed hellbeast you’ve got there in your hands. Did you know you were handling pure evil?”

 

“I had… some idea,” she says, gently extricating a set of claws from her golden sleeve. Dorian sets the book aside and stands to meet her.

 

“You do have that particular air of harassment about you. She must have been truly inspired to ruffle  _your_ feathers.”

 

With her free hand, Josephine pushes a dark lock of hair behind her ear. “She‘s been attacking the Orlesian nobles all evening.”

 

Dorian blinks. “Has she?”

 

Josephine takes to his impressed tone with grace, despite the momentary curl of of disapproval at the corner of her mouth.. “I had to disentangle her from the Marquis of Serault‘s gown myself,” she explains in her smooth, diplomatic way. “Fortunately, the evening found her in good humor.”

 

Pride blooms unbidden in Dorian‘s eyes and the uptick of his smirk. Josephine takes it in before Dorian can properly hide it away.

 

“If it had been the Empress, they might have called it treason.”

 

“Perhaps that‘s what we should call you. _Treason_ ,” Dorian says idly, scratching her under the little white chin. He‘s rewarded with a deep-bellied purr of what is probably agreement.

 

“The Inquisitor returns from Emerald Graves this evening, as I‘m sure you know, or I would have left her in his quarters instead. As it is...”

 

“Yes, I quite understand. I‘ll keep the little wretch out of trouble until we can foist her upon our fearless leader.”

 

“I would be much obliged,” Josephine says, her shoulders drooping in relief. Dorian does not envy her position as peacekeeper. “And if you could keep her away from the aviary...”

 

“I make no promises,” Dorian quips cheerfully, inclining his head as she makes her retreat. “And you, my darling little terror, deserve a treat for terrorizing Orlesians. I know just the thing...”

  


* * *

  


“Now, look,” Vivienne states from her artful recline on the chaise lounge, “here he is. I do hope he’s come to observe you in all your finery.”

 

The white lump of fur arches under her touch, stretched long over her lap before curling into a ball of pleasure. Dorian strolls in from the archway, arms coming to fold over his chest.

 

“What’s this? You’ve taken on a familiar? I’m surprised at you.”

 

“She _did_ approach me,” Vivienne muses, tickling the fuzzy chin. “But I believe it was out of contempt for my robes, and not in invitation for partnership.”

 

“You must be heartbroken.” The sunlight winks upon the kitten’s throat and Dorian blinks. “... Is that _jewelery_?”

 

“It’s a collar, darling,” sniffs Vivienne. Dorian can feel his eyebrows inching ever closer to his hairline.

 

“Terribly sorry, my incredulity was misplaced. At its heart, it lies in the fact that you have accessorized the Inquisitor’s pet.”

 

“Indeed. And now she looks the part of a respectable member of the Inquisition rather than a dirty stray.” A little pink tongue curls daintily with the kitten’s yawn, and Dorian finds himself baffled all the further by Vivienne’s smile. “Yes. You’re quite welcome, my dear.”

 

Dorian steps into the sunlight poured across the floor from the stained glass windows. “If my eyes don’t deceive me, you’ve adorned her with _actual_ diamonds. And you never get me anything.”

 

“Val Royeaux does not recommend silverite baubles for kittens.”

 

“No, of course not, you have to be practical with this sort of thing.”

 

Vivienne’s dry stare does nothing to dampen Dorian’s mirth. “Shall I leave the two of you alone, then?”

 

“Not at all. I’m rather insulted by the insinuation that I have the time to keep her entertained all afternoon,” Vivienne tuts, tapping the kitten with gentle reprove between the ears when she nips at a finger. “And were the beast to touch my chaise, I would have no choice but to turn her into a pair of mittens.”

 

Dorian tuts. “Now let's all be rational, civilized mages about this. There's only enough of her for one mitten.”

 

“I think that rather depends on the hands they are intended to fit, darling. No, take her with you. It is for the best. Were she to grow accustomed to the finery I have to offer, the Inquisitor could never hope to compare.”

 

“Too right. It would do the Inquisition’s image no favors for its leader to weep openly at his loss.”

 

“And tear stains on your shoulders would not suit you.”

 

“Don’t be absurd,” Dorian sniffs, and scoops the tiny pliant body from Vivienne’s lap to wiggle comfortably against his chest. The fine row of diamonds looped about the neck fits well, and she carries it with grace. It’s enough to make Dorian proud.  “Everything suits me.”

  


* * *

  
  


Familiar footfalls on the stairwell herald the arrival of Dorian’s favorite visitor, and Dorian shares a smile with the tome in his lap. With careful deliberation, he stands and tucks the book away on its shelf.

 

“Took you long enough,” Dorian says. He turns to charm his guest with a crooked grin, and it’s given neither the proper time nor the appreciation it deserves before he’s pulled in close to a broad chest by a pair of arms he knows too well. A breath of laughter is squeezed from his body and he loops his own arms around the Inquisitor’s waist, resting both hands at his back. “It takes a lot of audacity to sweep in here and trap me in your sweat stench, amatus. Couldn’t you have stopped to bathe first?”

 

“Not likely,” Adaar mumbles to his hair, and Dorian squeezes him once to make it perfectly clear he speaks only in jest.

 

“Well, I suppose it _would_ be a bit dramatic for me to go about reversing time so you could do so when taking myself down for a bath would work just as well. I’ll take you with me. Scrub the hallowed elvhen soil from behind those pointy ears.”

 

Smile pressed against the crown of Dorian’s head, Adaar says, ““I could probably take care of the scrubbing myself.”

 

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

 

A dainty but pointed throat is cleared somewhere behind the Inquisitor’s back just as Dorian’s lips have found the stubble-rough skin at the corner of his mouth. Dorian tries not to scowl a burning hole through Adaar’s chest out of spite for the interloper.

 

“Solas,” Adaar greets, and once his innocent shoulder is out of the way, Dorian does not hesitate to frown. “Did you need something?”

 

“Yes, what couldn’t possibly wait another - ah.”

 

The elf steps forward with a familiar bundle of white fur trapped between the thick travel pelt about his shoulders and the prison of his long fingers. “She was kind enough to leave a… gift on my desk just before our return,” he says, and dusts off his hands once Adaar has secured the kitten against his chest. “Not the most pleasant stain upon one’s research, I think you’ll find.”

 

“I’ve had worse,” Dorian contributes, folding his arms. Adaar’s quiet little breath of laughter only widens his smirk. Solas remains unimpressed.

 

“I apologize. We’ll take care not to let her wander into your space again.”

 

“It would be much appreciated, my friend. Cats… do not care for me.”

 

“I can’t imagine why,” Dorian says breezily. “You’re so playful and accommodating.”

 

“No more than you, I should think.” Solas eyes one shelf of books for a quick moment before he inclines his head. “I’ll leave you then. Try not to disturb our Tranquil friends with your... antics.”

 

“Oh, that was only the once,” Dorian calls to his retreating back. “If I’m the necromancer, why is it you who never lets these things die?”

 

Solas’ soft chuckle drifts up from the stairs as he descends. Snorting, Dorian turns his attention fully toward Adaar; it comes as little surprise the stubby-legged beast in his hands has clawed her way up his traveling cloak to rest in the high collar.

 

“Marvelous; now she’s going to reek of your sweat, as well. Is no one safe?”

 

“It won’t be the first time she’s joined us in the bath,” Adaar is only too happy to point out, and Dorian has to laugh.

 

“What a bizarre life you must lead to speak those words like they’re normal.”

 

Once Dorian has his notes and open volumes tucked back into their respective shelves, time reasonably filled with idle chatter, he dusts off his hands and turns back to find the Inquisitor staring down at the kitten in bewilderment. She, in turn, gnaws on the tip of his thumb.

 

“It’s a cat, if you were wondering.”

 

Adaar’s attention flickers to him briefly to smile before he looks back down in puzzlement.

 

“Are these… diamonds?”

 

And Dorian can feel the grin on his face widen. “Charming, aren’t they? Vivienne’s petition for custody.”

 

“Vivienne’s…” Adaar blinks owlishly. “What happened while I was away?”

 

“Oh, hardly anything at all,” Dorian says with a jaunty wave of his hand before he presses it to the small of Adaar’s back to guide him down the stairs. “Though I do have an anecdote regarding her sordid affair with the Marquis of Serault that will just tickle you pink.”

 

* * *

  


The Iron Bull slaps Dorian on the back in a manner that's probably meant to trigger all of Dorian's latent machismo in his revelry, but really only makes him spill what may or may not have been dragon piss all down the front of his robes. With a curse, Dorian spreads his arms and surveys the damage in dismay.

 

“Oh, marvelous - now this is ruined forever, thanks to your death brew.”

 

“Good. You needed to burn it anyway.”

 

Dorian narrows his eyes and hopes his disdain cuts Bull to the core. “That’s just what I needed: fashion advice from the shirtless man in circus pants.”

 

He folds, tossing his cards down and pushing away from the table at the prompting of the Chargers’ hoots and hollers. Varric grins at him from across the table, and his jovial wink tells Dorian the forfeit was wise. That, or he was finally making an attempt to charm Dorian into a torrid dwarven love affair; if Dorian was perfectly honest with himself, had the ale made it past his lips rather than down his shirt, he might have been tempted. Of the two it is a far less likely option, so Dorian is confident he isn’t leading the poor man on by patting his shoulder in passing (and a peek at his cards confirms it) as he makes his way from the pub into the cool night air.

 

The stars are brilliant, smattered across the sky in an explosion of soft light, but outside of the tavern’s warmth the ale down his front sticks to him in one long, frigid splotch; it’s too cold by far to stand around in the dark to appreciate them. He jogs up the stone stairs into the main hold and tries not to adopt an air of superiority as he waltzes straight through the Inquisitor’s door. Humility is somewhat easier to maintain with an enormous, reeking liquor stain seeped through to his torso.

 

When he finally makes it up the final flight of stairs, Adaar‘s eyes lift from the reports on his desk. Fire lights the room from the hearth and casts his smile in a soft, warm glow that pulls Dorian closer.

 

“You‘re back earlier than I expected,” he says, laying his quill to rest on the table. “Varric must have had a very good night.”

 

“I‘m sure he was leading up to it,” Dorian agrees. It‘s easy enough to make quick work of his sleeves and he tosses them onto Adaar‘s desk before turning his attention to the buckles over his shoulder. “I decided to call it a night when my pint was more interested in my outfit than my mouth.”

 

“Oh no,” Adaar said with a sympathetic grimace.

 

“Indeed. I‘d like to think my mouth is my best feature.” The ruined shirt falls to the floor with rustle and a clank. “Top three at the very least.”

 

Planting his hands on his hips, Dorian frowns over the desk. ”Well now, this is odd.”

 

“What‘s odd?”

 

Always good of him to be so predictably indulgent. Indulgently predictable. Dorian cocks his head minutely to the side.

 

“Here I am in nothing but my boots and trousers, and nobody‘s lifted a finger to help me finish the job. I‘m finding the predicament rather distressing. Varric could spin this into a tragedy without even an ounce of effort.”

 

Adaar’s mouth folds into an apologetic sort of smile. Very sweet, but not at all what Dorian had been hoping for. “Ah. Those must be pressing reports indeed.” Letting his hands fall to his side, Dorian glances over his shoulder. “If I serve as a distraction, I can retire to my own quarters. Goodness knows the bed needs a good dusting.”

 

“What?” Adaar brow wrinkles for a quick moment before his expression clears. “No, it’s not - the reports can wait. And you’re not a distraction.”

 

“Well!”

 

“You know what I mean.” Mirth could pool in the dimples that form at the Inquisitor’s smile. “I’m not allowed to stand up at the moment.”

 

“What? Why ever not? I don’t remember impairing you last night.”

 

Adaar tucks his bottom lip between his teeth - to keep from laughing, presumably - and gestures down at his lap.

 

“What’s this?” Dorian skirts around the desk, peeking curiously into the dark space. “Something naughty? And I wasn’t invited?”

 

One large hand lifts from his lap to reveal the curled body of their guest, round belly rising and falling with every breath.

 

“Well, she’s commandeered my space quite nicely.” Her ears twitch when Adaar brushes their tips and she chirps, rolling her body closer to Adaar’s stomach when he strokes her head. “My my, she truly believes she deserves it.” The laughter lines at the corners of Adaar’s eyes deepen, utterly besotted. “And why shouldn’t she when you look at her like that.”

 

“As if you weren’t the one to accept her collar from Vivienne,” Adaar chuckles, tapping at one stubby paw.

 

“Why should that make her feel entitled? If anything, it should remind her of her place as a small animal, entirely helpless and reliant upon us as her overlords and masters.”

 

“It’s covered in diamonds.”

 

“And do you suppose she grasps the significance?”

 

Adaar grins. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

 

She cries - a gentle, muted sound, tailor-made to call all attention to herself in their audacity to turn it away. Dorian should be a little more upset that she’s using his own tactics against him, but he’s hardly surprised. And, truth be told, rather impressed.

 

“If I tell her to budge up, do you think she‘ll listen?”

 

He says it in jest, mostly, but Adaar reaches out to take his hand. The kitten opens her eyes and regards him with sleepy curiosity at the loss of her five flexing fingers and the magic they work on her tummy. They circle around Dorian‘s hand instead and squeeze once, gently. He doesn‘t say anything, but his eyes speak volumes. Soft, sugary sweet ones that have no business being written about Dorian. But here they are.

 

“Oh, you‘re right,” Dorian says with a click of his tongue. ”There‘s more than enough room for one, isn‘t there?”

 

“They're your words, not mine,” Adaar murmurs, lifting Dorian‘s knuckles to his lips. He feels rather silly about it, considering he‘s stood there in naught but his trousers, but the gesture warms him all the same. From Adaar’s lap comes another mewl, their burden blinking slowly up at Dorian, and he’s well and truly done.

 

“Yes, yes, I fold. Your powers combined thwart even _my_ stronghold of resolve. But,” and he points at the kitten in utter determination, “I’ve staked my claim on the bed this evening. You can wait on the balcony for all I care.”

 

“The closet,” Adaar corrects pointedly, and Dorian draws his hand away.

 

“You really don’t grasp the concept of survival of the fittest, do you? Oh, alright, fine, no need to give me that look. Give me a different one instead. Something more suitable for the bedroom.”

 

Adaar glances down at the kitten in his lap innocently cleaning its paws, and then back up.

 

 

“No, you’re right, to the closet first. And then commence with the bedroom eyes. You’re mine for the evening, and I’ll brook no arguments.”

 

“You’ll hear none from me,” Adaar murmurs. Dorian can feel his mouth curve into a devilish sort of grin.

 

“Now that,” he says, toeing out of his boots, “is  _exactly_ the look I was hoping for.”

  


* * *

  


When the incessant pawing and wailing at the door proves too distracting for even Dorian to get comfortable between Adaar’s legs, he throws off the covers and tumbles out of bed to open it with all the jerky gracelessness of a lion being stung by bees.

 

“I hope you enjoy never having sex again,” Dorian grumbles, all but tossing the pesky bundle into Adaar’s hands. He is taken up into those arms not a moment later, drawn tightly to a beloved and familiar chest that the beast struggles to clamber over to settle between them. Adaar presses a kiss to Dorian’s brow and he’s very nearly placated.

 

Not nearly enough to scrap his plot for vengeance entirely, but. It’s a start.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> For Aofunk, who essentially gave me the shaving scene - planted it in my head and did irreparable damage to my tender heart. And I never forgave. And I never forgot.
> 
> Title from "The Naming of Cats" by TS Eliot.
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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